


In Hindsight

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Grief, Kay AU, Mourning, Pregnancy, reflections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7082470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a year since Erik's death, and Christine reflects on that night, what was and is, and what might have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Hindsight

It is not his child that lies deep beneath her heart. It is not his child. It will not have his eyes, or his smile, but, oh, how she wishes otherwise.

It is not that she does not love her husband. She does. She loves him very much, in fact, and each morning and night thanks God that she has him. It is more that she will have her husband forever, can have five, six, ten of his children if she so wishes. But _him_ , _Erik_. It is too late to have his child now, and she can never turn back and change that.

She should have returned to him sooner. She knows, she _knows_ , that he specified the eve of her wedding, and he could not have known how very ill he would be and nor could she have known but if she _had_ known – If she had known, she would have returned sooner, would have sworn her love to him and married him before God and loved him for the time left to him.

(If she had known, there is every chance that she would not be sharing this bed with her husband just now, but to have had that precious time with Erik, after everything, would have been a gift that she could not have refused, and every day she regrets her foolishness at not staying with him.)

As it was – as it was when she arrived he could hardly raise his hand for to take her own, every small movement shooting pain through his frail body. Raoul stood by the door, face creased with worry as she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, gently weaving her fingers with _his_ and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I came, Erik,” she murmured against his skin, “as I promised.” She gently stroked away the tear that slipped from his heavy-lidded eye, its track glistening in the lamplight and her heart twisting.

“I never doubted you, my dear.” His lips hardly moved, once-beautiful voice soft and hoarse, his thumb stroking over her fingers. “You are,” he swallowed, “well I trust?”

“Yes, of course.” She could not tell him of the throbbing ache deep within her heart, that felt as if it might swallow her whole, having to see him so weak and ill. Such a thing would only hurt him. No, it truly was best to pretend to be all right, to bring him some comfort.

“You look well.” He sighed, his eyes flickering closed and head tilting into her. “And your Vi-Vicomte?”

“Raoul is well, too.” She hesitated, a moment, over whether to mention his presence, and then decided against it. No need to force Erik to feel compelled to speak with him, when he was already so drained.

“That’s good.” He whimpered as she slipped an arm beneath him, and pulled him closer to her, tucking his head in beneath her chin. Not once did she let go of his hand. Oh, how she longed to hold him tight, and protect him, her eyes burning with tears at the fear of hurting him by doing so. “He will…be good to you.”

She shushed him softly and kissed his hair, holding him a little tighter. “I know he will. I know. Don’t waste your strength. Just rest now.”

“You should…go. No need to…see this.” He did not want her to go, not truly, not with the way he squeezed her hand as he whispered. And she did not want to leave. How could she leave him, when he was so close to the end? It would be cruel of her to go.

“No, Erik, no.  I will stay, through to the end I will stay.” She raised his hand and kissed his fingers gently. “I promise.”

He whimpered and nuzzled her throat, gasping hard. “Oh, Christine…”

She rocked him gently, her throat painfully tight. So many things she could have said to him, all clamouring at once in her throat, for him to hear before it would be too late. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell him that she loved him because it would only hurt him now at the end, couldn’t tell him that she would have stayed, couldn’t tell him that she was (still is) ever so thankful for him, couldn’t assure him that he would be all right when it was a blatant lie, could only hold him and pretend that she could always hold him so close and keep him safe.

He shifted in her arms, disentangling their fingers and laying his hand gently on her hair. “Will you,” he swallowed, whimpering slightly, “will you sing? Please?”

And it took all she had to speak past the lump in her throat. “Of course, Erik. Of course.”

“I’m very…tired. But I think…I think I could…stay awake through one song.”

She craned her neck, and pressed one soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then I will make it the most beautiful song you have ever heard.”

 Those mangled lips twisted into a faint smile, and she kissed them once more, his fingers stroking her cheek. “It will be,” he breathed, and sighed. “My darling.”

She re-positioned herself carefully, so that her lips rested next to his ear, and swallowed back the tears in her throat in an effort to get her voice clear. “Sleep well,” she murmured, and softly raised her voice into an old lullaby her father used to sing to her. The words were vague half-memories, but as she sang they crept back to her, one by one, as if she were in that other time so very far away. She could feel Erik breathing against her, each breath warm against her skin, and felt them slow as he drifted into sleep. She finished her song, and wiped away the tear that trickled down her cheek, eyes roving over the planes of his sleeping face in a desperate attempt to imprint him on her mind forever.

(Even now she sees him as he lay in her arms, face slack in sleep and eyes flickering beneath the lids.)

The bed shifted and she looked up to see the Persian, his dark eyes red-rimmed as he sat down on at edge, and pressed his fingers gently to Erik’s throat. He did not speak, but the twisting of his mouth said all that words could not and Christine had to fight the sob that threatened to rip through her. It would not do to break down, not while Erik still lived, however short his time may be.  The Persian laid his hand gently on Erik’s shoulder, and bowed his head, the tears shimmering golden on his cheeks. For one moment she longed to reach out and hug this strange man that she had never exchanged more than five words with, but she could not let go of Erik, no matter how much she could see her own grief stamped in every line of the Persian’s being.

Erik’s hand still lay limply at her hair, and she reached up and took it, kissing it gently and entwining their fingers. His fingers were cold as ice, and she rubbed them gently in the futile attempt to warm them. He was not gone, not yet, and already his hands carried the chill of death.

The bed dipped again, and this time she felt Raoul settle behind her. He did not speak, and she did not look up at him, but he laid his hand on her waist and that was enough. She took a deep, steadying breath and sighed, and held Erik tighter, as tight as she could, so tight she could feel his heart beating through his thin nightshirt and her dress, feel it race and falter and struggle on, each breath a painful effort. What she wouldn’t do to keep him safe, and well, and happy, and all she could do was hold him, and squeeze his hand, and kiss his hair, and make silent vows of love and forgiveness and apology, and she could hardly breathe with the twisting of her own heart, the desperation to keep life in his body.

At last, a whimpering groan slipped from his throat, his legs shifting a moment and fingers twitching between her own. And that was it, there was only silence when he fell still and she pressed her hand to his heart and the Persian fumbled at his throat. And it was all futile because they both already knew, and her scream strangled itself in her own throat, choked off and as lost as he was.

The baby kicks and she gasps, jolted back to the present, to her bed with Raoul sleeping peacefully beside her, safely unaware of the memories swarming around her, and the regrets. It has been a year since that night and it is his heir she is carrying, his and not Erik’s. And he has promised that they will name the baby after Erik, but what difference does that make? A promise made to soothe her crying cannot bring him back, cannot fill the yawning hollowness in her heart that Raoul and the baby should be able to fill but cannot because they are not Erik, and to all intents and purposes Erik does not exist anymore, has no place in her life. She can’t breathe with it, with the tears dry in her throat and the endless chasm undermining every moment. She’s suffocating with the sheer hollowness of the knowledge that he is gone, and Raoul, bless him, cannot do anything to stop that, no matter how tight he holds her and how many gentle, understanding words he whispers.

The baby shifts again, ever-restless, and she curls into a ball, as tight as she can. She cannot bear Erik’s child, however much she yearns otherwise, and the knowledge that _this_ child will get to know his father is a cold comfort tonight, when it is not her husband that she wishes slept beside her, but a ghost.

 


End file.
